


Screaming Out A Love Song

by redluna



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Alternate Universe-Band, Anxiety Disorder, M/M, Muteness, Romantic Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-14
Updated: 2015-02-14
Packaged: 2018-03-12 10:05:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,575
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3352580
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/redluna/pseuds/redluna
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Eames not only scores the perfect seats via Ariadne for his favorite new band, he gets singled out of the crowd to come up on stage.</p><p>There's just one little problem.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Screaming Out A Love Song

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [ko-no-yo](http://ko-no-yo.tumblr.com/) for arthureamesgiftexchange over on tumblr. (If you think there wasn't a crazy amount of fan girl-ing over her art done than you're wrong.)
> 
> I was given free reign when it came to au settings and when I under-earthed this through ~~stalking~~ research on her blog it was pretty much all over: i’m mute and you’re the lead singer of my favorite band who just pulled me on stage to sing with you au
> 
> (Title from Remain Nameless by Florence and the Machine)

Eames still isn’t quite that sure how Ariadne has managed to rope him into this one. Or, well, he had some idea—it’s just all clouded up in memories of watery brown eyes with a wobbly bottom lip and tickets being waved under his nose. But the concert has also turned out what seems like half the town _and_ the next one over, and Eames has never liked crowds for a reason.

Ariadne (bless her) did her best to make up for it, commandeering a place down on the front lawn for them to stretch their blanket out. But then she’s as lost as all the rest when the opening act finally hobbles offstage at last (poor lads had done their best but _really_ ) and the members of Dream start quite literally strutting out across the stage.

It would have typically been expected that a band with a name like that would enjoy a short run in some cliché circles before crashing and burning. How the group manages to defy the norm so strongly has to do mostly with the incredible allure of their music (never quite one genre yet beautiful all at once) but the fact that each member of the band is bloody _gorgeous_ too probably didn’t hurt either.

And the way that Ariadne nudges him in the ribs, smirking, when Arthur Moss allies up to the mike, manhandling it like it’s some sort of stripper pool, no doubt says just which one Eames enjoys ogling the most.

His eyes wind up closing eventually, though, despite the fond eye roll he manages to catch from Ariadne right beforehand. Music has always gotten to him better this way, trickling into his mind and getting absorbed down into his skin. With a voice like Arthur’s, one that alternates between purring and growling out the lyrics to you, Eames isn’t sure how he’s not supposed to want to do that for literal ages.

When Ariadne starts shaking his arm later on, he just frowns and tries to yank back. If anything her grip only tightens, though, forcing him to open his eyes. Which is right around when he realizes that all eyes are on him.

…And a spotlight?

It isn’t until he’s getting lead up to the stage by some men definitely too stringy to be security that Eames’ scrambling mind starts to put things together. There was a break in between the songs, some of the usual babbling that he hadn’t been paying all that much attention to, but, if he remembers right, there was something about bringing someone onstage to sing amongst all that.

When he’s deposited directly onto the stage, surrounded by the beaming faces of the band, he realizes that, yeah, things really had gone to hell after all.

His breath is starting to come short, a prickling sensation burning behind his eyes, and he really hopes he isn’t about to have a panic attack right up there onstage.

Arthur—of freaking course it’d be _him_ —tries to slide one the mikes over to him. The look of bewilderment on his face when Eames takes a step back to thrust his hands up is definitely expected. That he actually appears somewhat hurt isn’t and therefore about a thousand times worse.

Eames struggles to get the motions right, but his hands keep stumbling over one another. It isn’t until he gets through the movement for “can’t” then utterly botches an attempt for “talk” all over again that the pianist claps her own far more slender hands to her mouth.

Which is how he winds up with Mal swirling down to his side in a swirl of dark sequined fabric. She captures his hands gently in hers and squeezes before leaning into the mike that Arthur has been keeping outstretched rather helplessly.

“It looks like we’re in for an unexpected treat tonight, folks.” The French tint to her voice is heightened up close, each rounded out word drawing those listening in deeper. “How many of you of you _amoureuxs_ out here tonight can sign, eh?”

Eames is expecting a few lackluster claps and perhaps a cheer from Ariadne, not the deafening (ha) uproar that comes from sections of the audience.

“Excellent!” The cheers only get louder when Mal signs her way through what she says next. “Let’s show the _nouvelles_ out there our own way of bringing the house down.”

Eames expects her to slip away back to her keyboard once the music for Dream Within A Dream starts to cue up, yet she stays right at his side. It still takes awhile for the tightness in his chest to start to ease and he never quite matches the graceful ease with which Mal manages to move through the signs. He does wind up smiling, though, even laughing a bit when Mal twirls him through a cross between a waltz and a tango through one of the instrumental sections.

The applause that surges up at the end is so loud that the only reason why Eames can make out what Mal says at the end is because she does so after getting her lips on each of his cheeks in turn.

“Thank you for being such a good sport.” Her eyes are surprisingly warm for someone who always appears so jaded in magazine articles and television interviews. But then, Eames supposes that’s rather the point of such things. “I know this can’t have been easy, but you really were incredible.”

_“You’ve got us backwards, I fear.”_

It takes her a moment or two to figure out just what he signed at her, but then she pitches her head back, laughter breaking out like the twinkling of little bells. “A comedian too? You truly are a wonder.”

He hobbles offstage with her glittery scarf wound around her neck with a collection of Dom’s guitar picks tucked into its makeshift pouch and a pair of Yusuf’s drumsticks tucked into his back pocket.

It’s what’s scrawled out across his arm in sharpie, though, that causes Ariadne to squeal so loudly that his eardrums come close to bursting (and giving him an “excuse” to be how he is).

“You got his _number_!” She waggles her eyebrows at him. “Looks like you have some pretty swanky moves after all.”

 _“With what—this?”_ Eames waggles his fingers to prove what he means. _“I’m probably stuck with the numbers to his favorite pizza joint or something.”_

Ariadne huffed, her cheeks puffing out in a way he could never tell her was adorable without getting whacked on at least one body part. “It’s like your default setting is pessimistic bastard.” She reaches for his pocket, crowing victoriously when she manages to snag his phone after a brief struggle. “Fortunately I’m here to keep you from becoming a hermit for good.”

By the time Eames gets his phone back, she has already typed out a message.

 **You:** so pizza joint—yea or nay?

Eames shakes his head, shoving his phone back into his pocket. _“You are such a brat.”_ Laughing at how put out Ariadne gets when the music swallows up her upcoming lecture is almost enough to help him ignore the fluttering of his heart.

There’s no way Arthur will text back. The guy has begun to reach near superstar status and, even without that, he gets to walk around like one of those Roman statues sprung to life. Guys like that don’t waste their time with people like Eames, who’s too afraid to open his mouth and covers up his gawky frame clothes from the more awkward than trendy side of the thrift store.

Which is why it comes as an utter surprise for more than one reason that Ariadne gets to greet him the next morning by tossing his phone at him. It really is a wonder that the poor thing doesn’t wind up in Eames’ mug of tea, especially with the way he fumbles with it after reading the message.

 **Unknown Number:** Actually this is the guy who wants to take you out on a date. But pizza can still be involved if you want.

\---

Eames let Ariadne turn his wardrobe upside down since it wasn’t like he would have figured out what to wear on his own. Her constant reassurances that he was making the right decision were helpful too since it had to take some serious goodwill to put up with Eames’ anxiety driven ramblings.

Her insistence that she come on the date with him, on the other hand, tumbled right over the edge of friendship into creepy and he wasn’t afraid to tell her so, despite how much she pouted.

When he gets to the hotel bar, though, Eames is half wishing that he had actually let her come. He could always have let her sit somewhere off to the side where she couldn’t “fan girl” quite so strongly. Then he would have at least had someone there on his side since he’s pretty sure the bartender is smirking over the way his eyes got all starry when Arthur sat down, looking perfect in a suit that had been most definitely tailored to his lean form.

Which is why it’s totally ridiculous that Arthur should be the one looking nervous when Eames is the one sitting there with his ancient leather jacket over the t-shirt Ariadne had thrust him into (one of the few he ones) and a pair of jeans.

“Uh… I might have overdone a bit, huh?” His eyes widened before he slapped a hand to his face, the tips of his ears going rather adorably pink. “I mean, can you even hear me? I saw you with Mal so I just considered… Oh hell, I shouldn’t be covering my mouth then, should I?”

Eames doesn’t even realize that he means to laugh until he actually hears it. He lifts his hands up, only to realize that he doesn’t know how much Arthur can actually sign. He takes a deep breath, letting it out slowly to keep his nerves at bay as he tugs his phone out of his pocket, pulling up a page on his web app that he had bookmarked ages ago for just this reason.

Arthur takes the phone from him with an arched brow when Eames holds it out, but he doesn’t ask any questions. Or, at least, not until after he peers at the screen. “Selective mutism? Oh, that’s…huh…” He slides the phone back over. “I’ll have to do some research then.” He rolls his shoulders up into a shrug, smile sheepish. “I mean, Mal has been teaching me some signs, but I don’t want to mess things up too much.”

 _“You won’t.”_ Eames smiles, small and soft, when Arthur’s brow furrows in determination. He isn’t prepared for the way the other man’s breath hitches when he takes Arthur’s hand in a surge of bravery, writing the words out on the palm with the tip of his finger.

It takes Arthur a minute or so still to realize what’s being said, but then he’s smiling too. “I don’t know,” he says, “I’ve spent most of this babbling at you. It’s a wonder you don’t think I’m an idiot yet.”

Eames shakes his head, feeling more than a little mystified. This time he uses his phone to type out, “You wrote a song about penrose steps. You can’t be an idiot.”

Arthur’s answering laugh is warm and rich, and does funny things to Eames’ stomach. “That you actually know what those are shows you aren’t one either.”

Eames knows it isn’t meant as a challenge, yet he finds up fumbling for one of the pens lodged into one of those plastic cases amongst the surveys that no one ever fills out. He uses a napkin to sketch out the design he wants, Arthur’s long fingers keeping the edges steady. When he looks up the eyes of the man in question are wide.

“Okay, you are…” Arthur swallows hard. “You’re really, real, aren’t you? We’re sure someone didn’t slip something in my drink to make me dream of some fascinating, handsome guy?”

Eames snorts, taking the pen to the napkin again to scrawl out, “Must’ve happened if you think I’m—”

That’s about as far as he gets, though, before a hand wraps around his.

“Look, I know something must have happened to make you…” Arthur chews on his bottom lip and thankfully leaves that aside. “But you really are pretty brilliant, you know?” He hooks a sly smile, tone turning teasing. “There’s a reason I called you up onstage, after all.”

Eames can feel his cheeks filling with heat, but he offshoots it by writing with a remarkably steady hand, “So it was my ass you were after this whole time, huh?”

Arthur buries his face in his hands and Eames frets momentarily until he realizes that the man’s shoulders are actually shaking with laughter, however silent it might be.

\---

He goes home that night in a cab paid for by Arthur, more than a little buzzed and floaty from good conversation. All of his clothes remained rather sadly on, but he did get rather impressively kissed pressed up against the outside of the taxi until the driver started honking his horn.

And that’s more than enough to keep Eames smiling until Arthur comes strolling into the coffee shop one day where he works about a week later. Saito is fortunately very understanding about the latté that almost winds up on floor, although that might be because Ariadne manages to catch it, heading off utter disaster.

Arthur thrusts his hands up, no doubt trying to look contrite, but he’s smiling too hard. “I swear, I’m not stalking you,” he said, “but you did mention where you work and…”

Ariadne shakes her head, surprisingly collected around the man she had spent all week shrieking about with Eames (well, in a matter of speaking). “Course not,” she said, “you’re just adorable as Eames makes you out to be.” She holds out her hand across the counter, grinning in the face of Arthur’s surprise. “I’m Ariadne—the best friend who’ll break your kneecaps if you hurt him.”

Eames doesn’t even get the chance to tell her off before Saito pipes up from his back office, “And I’m the boss that’ll pay off the police.” Frighteningly enough, the man could most likely pull off just that.

Arthur raises his eyebrows, peering over at Eames before moving to shake Ariadne’s hand. “You’ve got some impressive friends.”

“Thank you!” Ariadne chirps, pumping his hand once before letting it go. “I guess the band hasn’t gotten the chance to give Eames their own shovel talk yet?”

“Uh…actually…” Arthur scratches at the back of his neck. “Mal said if I mess this up then she’s kicking me out of the band and the others just nodded.”

“Huh,” Ariadne says. “I knew there was a reason why I liked her.”

Eames wasn’t quite sure whether he actually misheard Arthur mumbling something about how Mal was, “…always looking for a third…” or not, but figures he can always ask later.

Right now he’s a little too busy tugging a startled Arthur across the counter with a hand fisted in his shirt so he can kiss him. He doesn’t doubt that the applause in the shop means that this’ll be all over the internet later, blared across a dozen social media platforms, but that can be dealt with later.

Together. 


End file.
